


a belated autumnal equinox

by thychesters



Category: Until Dawn (Video Game)
Genre: "unrequited?" fool u thought wrong, AU, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Halloween, Jossam Week 2017, More tags to be added, Pumpkin carving, get ur girl by terrifying her to death right, josh chasing sam around the lodge, leave me alone with my trash ship, matching costumes, post-mountain, prompt fills, stuff i meant to post months ago but hey isn't it always halloween, tfw ur in love with a big nerd but ur a big nerd urself, the 'psycho' features in one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-17 16:12:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13662576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thychesters/pseuds/thychesters
Summary: at this point it's less "will they/won't they" and more "okay, we get it."a belated posting of a collection of jossam fics written forhalloween jossam week 2017. cross-posted from tumblr for better readability. some are loosely related, and others serve as stand-alones; some au and some revolving around events during, before, and after the mountain.





	1. trick or treat

**Author's Note:**

> so i wrote a number of these around the tail end of october, but never got around to posting them until now. it's february. that's fine, everything's fine, and i love these kids and the dumpster fire that is this ship. the title is what happens when i blank and jot down the first thing that comes to mind, lmao.
>
>> day 1: trick or treat

“What do you think you’re doing?” she asks as he’s snaking an arm around her waist, the inside of his elbow already against her hip before she’s managed to finish her question. She leans like she means to move away, only to knock his chest with her shoulder. “Being sneaky?”

“Trying to grab a couple chips, y’know,” he says, popping a Cheeto into his mouth by the time she peers over her shoulder at him. “Didn’t think you’d notice.”

“Cheeto breath down the back of my neck? Yeah, that’s a little hard to ignore.” Sam grins, side-stepping until she can face him head on, in the back of her mind thankful her hair’s down for once, obscuring the red tint creeping up the back of her neck. What’s also a bit hard to miss is the fact that they’re currently the only two people in the room, the way he steps a little close to her space to come across as accidental, the way his head tilts in the dim light above the island that’s usually blinding.

The party’s in full swing behind them—or as full swing as it can get, because a Giddings get-together pales in comparison to a Washington shindig, hardly holds a candle. They run in similar social circles, but there’s a difference between saying Sam’s hosting a costume party and Josh is throwing a rager. The BYOB tacked onto the bottom of her mailed out invites had been proof of that.

The orange and purple lights she’s strung around the kitchen cast an array of shadows across Josh’s face, reflected in his eyes as he looks down at her, when his gaze cuts to members of the track team on the deck and then back. The social circle she literally runs in, she muses.

“What are you supposed to be, anyway?” he asks, but he’s smirking as he looks her up and down, takes in the hair that’s not in its usual bun, the outfit that went from fashionably distressed to looking like she went a few rounds with a chainsaw. The costume make-up and paint Hannah slathered on her face earlier itches.

“I’m a ghost!” she says, lifting her arms with a grin to give him the full effect. Or as much as she can without shoving him away to give her room to twirl. They can hear Matt hoot at someone from the next room, followed by Chris, and Josh gives her a step back while she resists the urge to smooth her hands down her shirtfront like they’ve just been caught doing something they shouldn’t. Had one of their friends been in the room they’d likely be giving them leers by now, elbowing one another and whispering amongst themselves with knowing looks, as if Sam and Josh getting in one another’s space is something unusual.

“Oh yeah? Gonna moan and rattle a couple chains?” he says, and luckily for Sam she only rolls her eyes with a  _hardy har_ rather than a snort.

“You’re terrible,” she says, reaching out to swat his chest. Once again he’s decked out in one of those studio grade costumes, because of course Joshua Washington doesn’t half ass Halloween, and he low-key has to make all of his friends’ store bought costumes look bad. She finds she still favors Hannah and Beth’s ketchup and mustard duo from a couple years back, though.

“That’s not what they usually say,” Josh shoots back, and she makes an undignified noise in the back of her throat.

“I think I liked you better with your mask on. I don’t have to look at your ugly mug that way.”

He raises an eyebrow, levering himself on the island with one hand, head ducked as he leans into her space again. Any closer and if she moved her head he’d come away with white powder from her forehead smeared across his nose. “Is that what you’re into? Duly noted.”

Briefly, the image of Josh shirtless and slipping on the Jason Voorhees mask flashes through her mind just as quickly as she squashes it, because it’s both creepy and weird for a multitude of reasons. The lip of the island digs into the heels of her palms as she leans forward, both as emboldened as she is hesitant in the back of her mind, because this is a line they’ve been toeing for years, but their timing has always been incredibly off.

His stance shifts, and Sam watches as his gaze flickers from one eye to the other, the lopsided grin of his still there.

“I also usually prefer to be chased around the woods by a madman with a machete,” she says, and maybe it’s the lack of audience, the way she knows Hannah would be pulling a sour expression if she could see them right now that her toeing that same line he is. Or maybe he’s not, maybe she’s not, and they’re just keeping their repartee going because that’s what they do. “Really gets the blood flowing.”

“Oh yeah? Best to my knowledge the final girl doesn’t typically end up with the villain.” Josh’s expression borders on unreadable, but maybe that’s just because it’s dark, because their friends are in the next room, and near strangers surround them, because to read too far into it is to make it out to something it might not be. “Besides, I left my machete in the car. Something about terrorizing oblivious teenagers got in the way of pigging out on junk food. I had to pick my battles wisely.”

She shrugs. “Maybe you should have drowned instead.”

Josh frowns, and leans back enough that they both have breathing room, jaw working like he’s trying to think of something smart to say, say she’s really cut him to the bone. Say that he’s going to go tell his sisters that Sam threatened to drown him, because last time she almost went through with it and he really is traumatized now.

“I’m getting a lot of mixed signals here,” he finally says, and her hands leave the counter as she takes a step forward, away from all the candy and chips that have been mostly reduced to crumbs and discarded wrappers at this point.

“Maybe you should learn to read between the lines.”

She’s closer now, enough that there’s intent behind it, that she knows his breath smells like Cheetos and the whiskey he’s been pulling from the flask tucked into his pocket all night, and that hers tastes like Smarties. His throat works as Sam tries to gauge where they go from here, as he studies her before his head tilts and she can feel his next exhale at the Cupid’s bow of her lip.

“Pity, I never learned how to read,” Josh murmurs.

She lifts her chin up, makes eye contact like a silent dare. “It’s a wonder how you got this far in life.”

“I tend to make things up as I go,” he says, voice soft, and then he’s reaching around her with his free arm, enclosing her in his space as she reaches up, hands lingering between them like she doesn’t know where to put them, hasn’t thought that far ahead, and then Josh’s leaning back again, pulling away with a small handful of candy and a wink.

Something flares deep inside her, like she could smack him right now and feel no remorse for it.

She manages not to, somehow, bless her and lucky for him, and if Mike spots the white paint smeared across his cheek when he comes stumbling into the kitchen looking for the bathroom, he’s too buzzed to think much of it.


	2. a ghostly encounter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> once upon a time they were friends, had the potential to be something more, but then they had to go and ruin it and now he has scars and she has nightmares.
>
>> day 2: a ghostly encounter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one of three painful ones! what a good time to be had by all.

People don’t need to be dead to haunt you.

Mom tells her to consider it part of the healing process, the grieving process, as it were. It’s facing her fear head on and telling it that it doesn’t control her.

That’s all fine and well, but mom doesn’t get it.

She shouldn’t fear her  _friends_  in the first place.

But then he’s not her friend. He’s that  _something_  they never labeled, that two of them never sat down and tried to flesh out, and by the time she’d decided she really wanted to give it some thought, an entire mountain came crashing down around her. She’d had a plan, she thought, pull him away for ten minutes during that first night of drinking and reminiscing, and instead she’d stumbled around in the dark and he’d died. Or not. That still upsets her.

Melinda lets her in, is none the wiser, maybe just relieved to see another face, though she wonders if there is some trace of resentment (or at least unease) in her eyes, because she was part of the same posse who left all three of her children lost to the mountain. Three go in, one comes out. Or maybe it’s relief in her eyes, too, because she has her son back, hypothermia and dehydration and all. (If that  _is_ , in fact, all.) But that was weeks ago, and he’s okay now, they say, he should be.

She deposits Sam on the couch, asks if she need anything, which she politely declines, and leaves her to stare out the windows that overlook their yard—at the rose bush by the trim, at the curtains, at anything but him.

It’s the first time she has been alone with him, Sam realizes, since then. Since the basement, in both regards. Any other visit had been supervised, had been at a hospital, been in his room, had his mother hovering in the corner of her eye like she wanted to pry but didn’t know how.

(Does she want to press charges? What happened, Samantha?)

She thinks she’s come to provide her son company. Funny, Sam’s are here to do anything but.

Even that hurts. A lot hurts, now.

His eyes are on her, but she can’t tell if he’s actually looking at her, actually sees her, and if the two of them are, in fact, supposed to be something like they once claimed they were, thought they were. It should not make her uneasy, should not leave her skin crawling.

Sam has a laundry list of things to say Josh—thought so hard on it she made up a whole order the night before, moved it around again on the drive over. Her list keeps growing, makes her angrier and prods at that hurt, and she wonders if he has anything to say to her, too.

Sam fixes her gaze on him because she will not let him take that from her, too, lets her hands come together to pick at her nails because that’s what she does. A nervous habit, now. His own sit in his lap, on his thighs, and she entertains the memory of what Josh’s palm felt like against hers when she held it, when she pulled him along. She remembers what his hand feels like against hers, but that same memory knows what it feels like to have it wrap around her leg, to drag her out of her hiding spot, to force a mask over her mouth while she kicked and screamed.

Sam closes her eyes, takes a breath.

(She has tried to differentiate between them, to separate the two in her head. The association of one of the most horrifying nights of her life being caused by the boy before her, the cause of other nights that were … not.)

But regardless of whether or not he dons his mask, he is still Josh. Stepping in and out of various roles, and she wants to know how many other masks he has worn, how many things are real and how many are not.

“This is gonna be really awkward if you don’t say anything,” he tries, though any traces of a grin fall.

She open her mouth, ready to tell him to sit down, let loose her barrage of grief and anger and every other thought she’s been left to dwell on for the past year. Her ( ~~ missing ~~  dead) best friend’s  ( ~~missing presumed dead?~~ ) older brother sits across from her, and she wants to know if he has anything he wants to say, anything aside from three second glances and throat clearing to offer her. Why did she even come here? It’s not as if she’s keeping up appearances. Maybe part of her just has to be assured that he’s still alive, that what happened that night was actually real.

She closes her mouth. Clenches her jaw. There are so many things she wants to say she doesn’t even know where to start:  _You fucked up. I don’t trust you. I’m afraid of you. I have nightmares about you and monsters and sometimes I don’t know which are worse. Why did you single me out? I was there for you through everything, and this is how you repay me? I don’t even want to be here right now._

_How could you?_

_Are you sorry?_

“You’re an asshole,” Sam says.

“Fair point,” he says. This may be the most amount of words the two of them have exchanged that didn’t consist of ‘hey’ ‘morning’ or ‘how you feeling’ and even that isn’t much to bat an eye at.

Sam shifts a little, leans forward a bit and waits for Melinda to come flitting back into the room because she forgot something, just wanted to check on you two, does anyone want any lunch? Drinks?

She doesn’t. Josh’s eyes are on her again like he’s waiting for her to say something else, and fuck that, she doesn’t owe him anything. Her fingers curl against her legs, struggle to find purchase on her jeans as they form fists instead. She swallows once, twice, looks out the window again.

“I can’t do this anymore,” she tells him. “It’s — ”

Too much. Not enough. Not fair. Not okay. Unsettling to be alone with him right now, too much to associate one with the other, to war with being glad he’s alive, but at the same time resenting him.

“I have to go.”

She stands, already fishing for her keys as she heads back in the general direction of the door. She packed light for this trip, came armed with little more than her car keys and her cell phone (the new one, which she left in the car) to do what she had to. She has her duplicate of Hannah’s house key on the ring still. She should remove that.

(What she doesn’t tell him is that she still has the cable car key. That she kept it, held onto it.)

“Sam,” he says, and he sounds closer this time, closer than a room apart and her keychain snags on her pocket. “Sam, look, I get it. I — ”

_“No,”_  she gets out, turns around to face him again, find he’s followed her into the foyer at a closer distance, but one he still maintains. “You don’t get to apologize right now, because right now it doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t change anything.” She’s not going to cry, she tells herself, not going to give him that satisfaction. She’ll wait until she’s gotten in her car, or maybe until she’s safe in her driveway, or up in her room where she’s been hiding out any other time she’s cried. “You don’t—you don’t get to say you didn’t mean to hurt anyone because you  _did_ , Josh.”

She trusted him, she wants to throw it in his face, but he could do the same right back to her. Hannah trusted her, Beth trusted her, and one she left to rot and the other she burned to death.

“I’m so — I’m so  _mad_  at you, and that doesn’t even begin to cover it.” His hand comes up, reaches up like he’s about to try to bridge that gap, make a peace offering, and Sam steps back like she’s been burned. “Don’t touch me.”

Josh recoils and she takes some grim satisfaction in that.

Her eyes burn anyway, and she forgoes wrestling with her stupid fucking car keys to dig the heels of her palms into her eye sockets. “ _Fuck_. This is all — this is all just so fucked up.”

What she needs right now to be away from him, to get that space so she can sort things out, be selfish and get herself back in working order before tackling the project that is Josh Washington for the second time — or anyone else, for that matter. She needs five seconds, five minutes, five years to figure out where she stands as her. There had been that slight sense of codependency when it came to her and the Washingtons, Sam thinks. She and Hannah did everything together, Beth was always there, and Josh’s presence was a hard one to ignore. After ten years of Josh being part of almost every major moment in her life — and such a heavy presence for the past two, especially — maybe it’s time for part of it without him. After the past few years there has to be a point where he stops and she begins.

It doesn’t help that she’s afraid of him for the time being, that are still lingering feelings toward him.

“I don’t forgive you,” she says, mumbles, face obscured by her arms. “Not yet. Not for a while.”

She drops her hands. This is the part where he says something, where he speaks his peace and they really hash it out. This is the part where she grabs the door handle and wrenches it open, says  _“goodbye, Josh,”_  and where he stands numbly and doesn’t do anything. In the rom-coms she used to watch with Hannah this is the part where the scene ends much differently, where she sighs and eats the last of the popcorn as the couple twirls around in the rain.

But this is not, will never be, and Sam barely makes it to the first red light before she cries.


	3. costumes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pirates and baby bumps? pirates and baby bumps. love those happy aus.
>
>> day 3: costumes

“Zip me up?” she asks, one hand holding up her hair, mindful of the curls she just finished and rocking up onto the balls of her feet to factor in their height difference. He makes a show of crouching beside her, grumbling about the strain it puts on his knees while he wraps a warm hand around her hip, as if it’s the only thing keeping her steady. “Other way, Josh.”

“Hey, I was just looking to get some momentum,” he says, and she rolls her eyes at the grin she can hear in his voice. She drops her hair again when she feels him pat the small of her back.

“Oh yeah, I’m sure that’s it.” Sam smooths her hands over her skirt, straightening out her shirt. There’d been a small snag in between two of the black and red stripes of her skirt, and she runs her fingers over the quick repair job she’d stitched into it this morning. She glances over to where he’s migrated to the other side of the room, watching his reflection in the mirror above her dresser, running his fingers over his stubble. “Nice bandana, by the way.”

“Arr, brings out me eyes,” he says, and her mouth twists in the beginnings of a laugh because while it’s not the worst pirate voice she’s ever heard, it leaves a lot to be desired. Josh catches her eye in the mirror, watching her struggle with the earring that keeps getting caught in her curls and winks. He pivots, approaching her where she stands barefoot, and bumps her toes with his own socked ones while his hands come to rest at her waist again. “Ahoy, wench.”

Sam gets her earring in and watches maybe three different expressions war for dominance on his face. She raises an eyebrow at him.

“I feel like talk like that isn’t gonna get me laid.”

“Mhm, probably not.” She shrugs and reaches for the other gold hoop, laughing. “You’re so single-minded.”

“I am not,” he says, thumbs drawing circles on her hips. “I’ll have you know I think about a lot of things, Samantha.”

“Pizza and naps don’t count as deep thoughts.”

“Dammit,” he mutters, dropping his head to rest his forehead against hers. “Shiver me timbers, you know me too well.”

Sam grins, reaching up to rest her hands at the base of his throat, fingers curling over his shoulders as she leans into him. She wiggles her toes, and isn’t surprised to find him trying to squish hers with his, humming in the back of his throat as his palm comes to rest at the small of her back. They have maybe half an hour to finish up and lock the door behind them, but she’s more than content to spend a good twenty minutes wrapped up with him; it’s not like Chris will care all that much if they’re late, anyway.

“Someone’s gotta,” she says, voice soft, and then she’s dragging her hands back down his chest, giving him a small shove—not enough to push him away entirely, but enough to have him loosening his hold and taking a step back. Chris might not care if they’re late, but they still have more than enough prep work to do.

Josh isn’t necessarily happy about their outfits, more disappointed than anything, and he’d done his fair share of pouting when she’d gleefully dragged him down the aisle by the hand before tossing the costume at him.  _I’m never making bets with you again_ , he’d told her once they’d gotten home that night, deposited the wrapping on the kitchen table with a good sneer. She’d rolled her eyes, told him it wasn’t gonna be that bad, get over it, and popped a pirate hat on his head. He’d wanted to go all out, deck them out in gore and movie-grade costumes, and instead of Chucky and… whoever, Sam can never remember her name, she’s dressing them in pirate costumes from Party City. He told her all the stereotypes and lack of originality and authenticity made his skin crawl, how could she do this, doesn’t she love him and she’d kissed his cheek because boo, that sucked, better luck next time.

Sam drops her hands, and then promptly reaches around to swat him on the ass.

“Bring me the booty,” she says with the best pirate voice and lopsided grin she can muster.

It sounds more like a bark, Josh’s laugh, and then he’s flopping down on the end of the bed, all long limbs and no grace. He leans over, fishing for the boots he’d tossed out of the closet earlier, and peers at her from the corner of his eye, watches her struggle with a bandana of her own.

“So it’s okay when you do it, huh?” he mumbles, no real heat to it, and frowns at the floor because he could have sworn his other boot was there a second ago. Sam hums, poking through the make-up bag she’s left scattered across the bureau next to the stockings she tells herself she should have put on first.

“Double standards,” she says.

There isn’t really a word to describe the noise he makes, caught somewhere between amusement and a huff, and Sam peeks over her shoulder to find him staring at her again. Judging from the look on his face, yeah, definitely amusement. He has the eye patch on, too, really bringing the whole outfit together, cheese and stereotypes and all.

“Should have gotten you two eye patches instead of just the one,” she says.

“Could have gotten you two hooks for hands,” he shoots back. He’d been eyeing them while ducking down the next aisle, and in lieu of hooks had tossed a bag of Kit Kats at her because hey, she owed him at least that much. “If anyone asked what happened, we could have told them it was a kink gone seriously wrong.”

“Oh my god.” She can’t help the laugh, borders on giggles, and he watches her, eyes bright, as she comes to stand before him again. He raises his arms, waiting for her to join him, and leans back a bit as Sam straddles him. “I don’t know what to do with you sometimes.”

“I can think of a lot of things,” he tells her, looping an arm around her waist as her hands settle against his shoulders. He tilts his head to look up at her, resting his chin against her chest as she watches the one eye he can see out of. “A couple things you’d probably smack me for.”

Her fingers toy with the curls at the base of his skull, and some selfish part of her wants to cancel their plans for the evening and make some more of their own as Josh shifts to nuzzle the base of her throat, his free hand coming to rest at the base of her stomach and the barely-there swell. He murmurs against her skin, voice soft enough she doesn’t quite catch it, and soft enough that she isn’t sure if she was supposed to.

Part of her waits for a crack about how the real treasure is the one they already have, or the one they had all along, haha, but it doesn’t come. They sit like that for a while longer, Sam running her fingers through the hair she can get to, and convinced Josh’ll fall asleep if they don’t move soon.

“Tell you what,” she says after a couple minutes, though she’s loathe to move and her foot’s going numb. Josh grumbles, and then moves his head to peek at her with his good eye. “We go make our appearances, hang around for a couple hours and mooch off them for food, and then we come back here and watch every dumb and gory movie you want. Scout’s honor.”

And she’ll spend the rest of her night curled up in his sweatshirt because his clothes are more comfortable than hers, but that’s already a given.

Josh presses a quick kiss to the dip in her collarbone and smirks, gaze dropping down to his hand when he pulls away.

“Hear that? She’ll win me over yet.”

Sam sits back with a laugh, disentangling herself and ducking down for a quick kiss of her own as she goes, pins and needles taking up residence in her heel as he paws at her hip with a whine. She reaches for him and he takes her hand, making a big show of his struggle to get up, hoisting himself to his feet with a sigh.

They stay for maybe four hours, and she barely makes it through the first  _Halloween_  before she’s dozing to Josh’s fingers playing with her hair.


	4. the psychopath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is where the fun begins.
> 
> just kidding. it doesn't. she's never been more terrified in her life.
>
>> day 4: the "psychopath"

“Seriously not cool, guys.”

Her friends are assholes. But then she supposes she’s not surprised, given the general mindset of the group and their inability to go a whole outing without pranking one another at least once. (She should know, she’s engaged in a few herself.)

But this is a new low, she thinks. The night had gotten off to a rocky start, as had been expected, and now she’s wandering around in the dark and cold mostly naked, save for a towel, because at least they had the decency to leave that, the jerks.

It’s gotta be Chris or Josh.

She’s trying to figure out who’s most likely behind it—she’d blame Mike, but he and Jess were sent off to the guest cabin so they’re probably out unless they circled back. Knowing them, they probably didn’t. Matt wouldn’t have, and Emily she has no qualms with, as far as she knows. Josh was probably the mastermind, somehow goaded Chris and Ash into it. They probably sent Ash in, because she would’ve had a meltdown, had she turned around to spot Peeping Tom behind her. That Ouija board BS was totally a farce. These jerks.

There are… candles everywhere and creepy ass balloons with arrows painted on them. It’s  _definitely_  Chris or Josh.

Sam shouts when the clock goes off and startles her, and she adjusts the towel, tightens it a little. The lodge is still cold and it’s dark, and she didn’t exactly take the time to thoroughly dry off before storming out after them. She shivers because it’s cold, and an unheated mountain retreat isn’t exactly conducive to walking around partly unclothed.

Maybe she’ll laugh eventually, but right now she’s pretty annoyed, if not a bit angry.

Why is it so dark? She navigates a hall decorated in dust motes illuminated by the moonlight reflecting off the snow and filtering in, and she’d glance out a window and think it pretty if she wasn’t so perturbed. The air leeches what warmth from the bath remains in her skin, and she shivers again.

It’s remarkably quiet, and she expected to at least hear some snickering by now, because at least two of the three she’s ready to pin the blame on aren’t exactly good at subtly. She expects to hear the crackling of fire Josh had been struggling with earlier, the stomp of boots as Emily and Matt make their return. She expects the distant sound of voices, at least, because while the lodge may be expansive, sound carries. (Sam’d heard something earlier, dozed off in the middle of a concerto to be woken by a cut off yell. She’d called out, but was met with no response and chalked it up to her friends yelling, because they always did that whenever they got together. It wasn’t anything new.)

She calls out again, wanders around, bitter and rather unnerved by the new decor, and strains to seek out any clues to this deranged scavenger hunt in the dark. She pokes one ballon as she pads down the stairs as if to see if it will burst, and it only bobs and sways in a breeze that isn’t there.

It’s not funny anymore. It wasn’t to begin with.

There’s a light on in the cinema room by the time she makes it to the basement level, and if they’re all sitting in there watching one of the early versions of one of Bob Washington’s movies, she’s going to be pissed.  _Hope you enjoyed one of the new cut scenes from_ Bitter Feast _, haha; give me my pants back._

She storms in, ready to demand and reprimand, and it’s—

—empty.

She clenches her jaw for a second and calls out again, because  _guys come on,_  the silent treatment isn’t working and—the door slams and she shrieks. Her heart pounds for those next few seconds because her friends are jerks, just trying to scare her, and guess what! It worked! How funny, ha ha! Let it end now, it’s over! She waits for one of them to make a noise, give themselves away, for one to poke their head out of the shadows and laugh. She’d snagged a flashlight off the runner by the door because, terrible prank or not, she’s tired of walking around in the dark. The beam of light betrays nothing, shows no limbs or faces, no Chris squinting and shielding his eyes.

_Hello, Samantha._

The voice catches her off guard, because it’s one she doesn’t recognize. The projector kicks up and she swivels, light on the screen as her heart kicks up again. The voice continues, and part of her wants to tell Josh to knock it off, tell Chris to come out, monk robes and all, for Ashley to knock it off, too.

If Sam wasn’t creeped out before, she’s sufficiently freaked out now.

_“What are you guys doing out there?”_

What the fuck. That’s her. On screen. That’s her. Her in the bath. Filmed in the bath. Josh wouldn’t do that, nor would the rest of her friends. That’s not. What the fuck. She was filmed in the bath. How long was she filmed for? What the fuck. It throws her and her heart pounds and she feels like she’s going to be sick. She’s going to be sick.

“Why are you showing this to me … ?” Sam’s voice voice cracks, wavers, and her hands are shaking. There’s someone in the lodge, someone she doesn’t know, someone fucking with her and—

_Josh._ Josh shows up and JOSH IS BEING SAWED IN HALF JOSH IS SCREAMING OR IS THAT HER SCREAMING. JOSH IS DEAD JOSHISFUCKINGDEAD OH GOD ASHLEY WAS RIGHT NEXT TO HIM ASHLEY HAS TO BE DEAD TOO OH GOD HER FRIENDS ARE DEAD HERFRIENDSAREDEADHERFRIENDS ARE—

_I’m going to give you ten seconds._

She’s still screaming, heart in her throat and her hands are shaking so hard she almost drops the flashlight. Ten seconds and NONONONO HE’S IN THE ROOM HE’S IN THE ROOM AND HE’S WALKING TOWARD HER AND HE KNOWS HER NAME AND THERE’S A TANK IN HIS HANDS AND SHE HAS TEN SECONDS HER FRIENDS ARE DEAD SHE’S GOING TO DIE SHE’S GOING TO IF SHE DOESN’T—

—throw a vase at him, pitch it at him with all her might and take off running. She bolts, sprints, slams every door she runs into, run and run and run and RUN AND RUN AND HE’S RIGHT THERE RIGHTFUCKINGTHERESHEHAS TORUNFASTER HIDE OR RUN HIDE HIDE HE CAN’T FIND HER IF SHE DOESN’T MOVE IF SHE HIDES IF SHE HIDES IF—

_I can smell your fear._

His arm closes around her throat and she struggles, screams, kicks out as he puts a mask over her face and  _don’t breathe don’t breathe don’t breathe_  she doesn’t know what it is she’s going to die she’s going to die going to die going to—

—grab the bat, the bat, the bat Josh said JOSH IS DEAD BUT THE BAT HER FRIENDS HER FRIENDS FRIENDS ARE and blindly swings, lets relief seep in for point two seconds when it connects and he lets go. She stumbles, drops the bat, and runs.

Should’ve kept the bat.

Her friends, oh god, they—HE’S STILL RIGHT THERE RIGHT BEHIND HER LUMBERING LIKE HE HAS ALL THE TIME IN THE WORLD AND IS DECIDING HOW SHE DIES AND GRABBING FOR HER AGAIN AND THERE’S NO HANDLE NO—

She manages to lock the door, gets to sob for a second because she got away, got away for the time being. She stumbles through the dirt, through a basement within the basement, a world she didn’t know existed, and her lungs ache and burn. Her heart hasn’t stopped pounding, feels as if it’s going to burst, and as she trips over scraps of wood Sam thinks about taking a moment of silence for her friends. Her friends are dead, have to be, are either dead or bloody and beaten and tortured and dying. There’s a man in a mask chasing her, has gotten into the lodge, and an ill fate has to have befallen those who were with her. Maybe Jess and Mike got out, maybe they’re safe at the cabin. Maybe Matt and Emily got lost. They’re cold and in the snow, but alive, _oh god_ , they have to be. _Please._

He’s still following her. He has to be.

She wishes this were all some stupid prank by her stupid friends where they’re all going to gather by a stupid fire later and laugh about it.

She wants to cry. She’s so fucking scared. She doesn’t want to die.

Her feet hurt, the soles scrapped up and bloody from when she took a tumble down the basement stairs. There’s blood at the corner of her eye from the re-opened cut on her brow. It smears across her forehead when she lifts a hand to wipe it, and Sam sniffs. Her eyes burn as tears prick at them, and she takes a shaky breath as she stumbles along, flashlight still in hand even as the beam wavers in her grip.

She’s never been so scared in her life. Panic wells in her chest again, claws up her throat and constricts, a nasty little demon reminding her that SHE’S GOING TO DIE SHE’S GOING TO DIE SAMANTHA GOING TO—

Hide. She can hide. There’s an elevator shaft she can hide in, looks like it’s out of operation, and she can hide, question her whereabouts later, after. (God, let there be an after, please, please pleasepleaseplease.) She can hide because she doesn’t know where else to run, doesn’t know where she is. Sam makes a mad dash for the shaft, cursing as she scrambles into it and doesn’t pay much mind to the newest bruises and scrapes that adorn her knees and rest of her body. Tears burn down her cheeks, hot and fat, and her lip quivers. She can’t cry now, can’t do that, can’t let panic and fear get the best of her and—

_Here, pussy pussy._

He’s there HE’S RIGHT THERESTANDING RIGHTABOVE HER HE’S RIGHTTHERERIGHT THERE RIGHT she shoves the flashlight against her stomach because she can’t hit the switch fast enough, mute the light with the soiled terry cloth. It’s quiet and HE’S RIGHT THERE RIGHT THERE OH GOD SHE CAN’T SHE CAN’T MOVE IF HE SEES HER IF HE SEES THERE’S NO TELLING—

It’s quiet. He breathes. Paces. It’s quiet. It sounds like he moves away after a moment, and she lets out the breath that’s been gathering in her lungs ever since she first stepped out of the tub. He’s gone. Is he? He might be. She was going to die, she could have died, she most likely was. He was chasing her around with a gas tank filled with who knows what, and all she has to defend herself with is a flashlight and a towel and her ability to run. She barely got by, unlike—oh god, Josh, Josh, oh _god_. No, no, no, he’s dead and the last thing—the last thing—oh god, what was the last thing they said to one another? Did he know?

She did it. He’s gone. He’s gone, and oh god, oh god, she’s safe. She did it. SHE GOT AWAY. SHE GOT AWAY, SHE’S SAFE, HE—

_—Gotcha._


	5. gods & monsters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry
>
>> day 5: "gods & monsters"

This is not how it was supposed to happen.

But that’s what happens when the path in the wood diverges, where in another life he was her prom date (she was going to ask him before chickening out, he knows, she told him), where his eyes aren’t red and she’s curled against his side for other reasons entirely, no matter the glances their friends pass their way. And that would have happened, was bound to come up at some point, could have been a thing had those said  _friends_  focused their efforts on pushing them, rather than getting his sisters killed.

Sam’s curled up against him, burrowed into the nest she’s formed in his blankets and along his ribcage, head pillowed on his shoulder and content with the rise and fall of his chest. She’s watching  _Clue_  with rapt attention—or, he supposes, as rapt as it can be when she’s half-asleep, coming down from their sobbing high. He has his own high to contend with, limbs slack while she’d declined his offer and just watched him with those sad eyes he hates like she didn’t think he could see her.

He’s not her boyfriend, and she’s… she’s Sam. It’s something left undefined, something that doesn’t need labels, because it is what it is. They don’t call it much of anything, don’t, can’t, and to think too hard is to make too much of it. It’s unhealthy, they both know that, borders on codependency, but for right now it works.

She’s not his girlfriend, but to call her his sad fuck buddy is too coarse and vulgar, and doesn’t properly encapsulate what they are. They can’t, anyway. She pushes and pulls until there’s no space left between them, nestles in underneath his ribcage when she’s not wrapped around him, breath damp against his neck or nosing at his pulse point because sometimes the physical contact is necessary, or more than.

And he thinks that’s good, something to sink his teeth into, because that is something he can control. Finding something grounding is supposed to help, apparently, and when everything else is crumbling because Murphy’s Law decided to let all hell break loose, there is one thing he can steadfastly rely on, as unhealthy of a crutch as it is. It isn’t fair to either of them, but the would-be, could-be, should-have-been that was Sam and Josh went out the window the moment his sisters ran out the door.

Chris didn’t give him a definite answer when he brought it up, pussyfooted around the question when he said he wanted to go back, said it was in their honor, said they ought to do it out of respect. Chris’ awkward  _maybe_ sounded more like a no, more like there were sins he was afraid of atoning for, and guilt he had to own up to.

He’s zeroed in on Sam, because she has sway, sticky fingers in all the pots and friends with everyone’s friends. Besides, the others know how much time they spend with one another, even if they can’t be bothered to do more than text him on occasion, despite all those years of battling through high school together, as if suddenly they got his sisters killed and they’re the victims. Survivor’s Guilt will do wonders this year.

It’ll be easy—the best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry, but most plans don’t involve pure terror, and they’ve never met Joshua Washington before. He’s put weeks, months into this, gotten every last detail down to every last stitch, and the beauty of it was, if anyone thought he seemed a bit off, all someone had to do was name drop  _Hannah_  or  _Beth_  and he’d prepared himself for the ensuing pity party, didn’t even have to play nice because he could drop the conversation right there.

His hand moves from her hair, travels down the length of her arm, and he listens to Sam’s breathing hitch as his fingertips ghost along the fine hairs.

All he needs is for her to say yes.

She’s one of the major components—the key player, as it were, because while she’s going to factor into bringing them together, she’s also going to be the one out of play for a while, least she get overzealous and lead his plans astray.

She shifts, turns her head to rest her chin on his shoulder, face shadowed in the dark and framed by the blue glow of the screen behind her. His hand travels to the small of back, runs up along her spine as he watches her, gauges her reaction.

It’ll be easy.

He watches her, waits, her hand splayed across his chest where he reaches up and wraps his fingers around hers. To be fair, this…  _whatever_  is that they haven’t wasn’t part of his plan, had already come up long before any inklings, and it’s… It’d been a hiccup, at first, something to frown at and mull over, and while she may never forgive him for it (there are talks about forgiveness to be had by all, it seems), it’s something he can use, something he can work with. Josh needs them back up on that mountain, and who better to start with than Sam. She intertwines their fingers, gives his a squeeze.

She’s afraid of needles.

It’ll be easy.

Josh rolls them over, because where she has speed on him, he has muscle—something they’ve found useful and she hasn’t minded, but that’s neither here nor there. Propped up on his elbow he looms over her in the dark, and he lets go of her hand to loop his fingers around her wrist while she shifts.

Sam looks back at him, and he knows she’s giving him a quick study, like she does, glancing over all his facial features before meeting his eyes again. There are faint traces of a smile, and she breathes, settles beneath him.

“Hey,” she says, and there’s a jump in her pulse point beneath his thumb. All she has to do is say yes; it’ll be easy. She could certainly outrun him, but he doesn’t suppose she factors fear into most of her jogs, does have it clogging up her throat after she laces up her sneakers.

They have it coming. The whole lot of ‘em.

“Hey yourself,” he says, ducking his head to nose along her jawline, the column of her throat. He thinks about just how easy it is to pin her wrists, how she bends to it and surrenders that power to him. She lets him pull all her strings, and he gets to see what makes her tick, what makes her curl her toes, and exposes parts of her that other people sometimes never get to see.

Josh eases himself down, blankets her as her arm comes up to wrap around his shoulders, and he can both feel and hear her laugh as he tucks his face into the side of her neck. She’s ticklish, and he knows that, too, knows just about all the inner workings of one Samantha Giddings.

All she has to do is say yes.

He pulls his head back to kiss her, really plant one on her, and elects to set aside his plans for the time being, for the next hour or so. That’s one that requires some build up, too, has to catch her in the right moment, the right mood. He smooths his thumb along the smooth skin of her inner wrist.

It’ll be easy.


	6. pumpkin carving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> he's cute, he thinks. she's laughing but still gonna kick his butt.
>
>> day 6: pumpkin carving
> 
>   
> [day 7: supernatural au/vanishing hitchhiker au](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12656391)

He’s watching her, keeps sending her glances her way like he doesn’t think she’s gonna notice. It’s probably in his best interest to pay attention to what he’s doing, given that he’s got a knife in his hand and he’s not looking to lose any fingers tonight. (But who knows, the night’s still young.)

She has a determined look on her face, Sharpie in hand and pumpkin turned away from him, because whatever design she settled on is gonna be amazing and he’s gonna be in awe, she said. He tells her he can’t wait, voice deadpan and dry as he drags his fingers through the messy orange goo spread across the tabletop.

There’s newspaper everywhere, meant to keep the table clean save for the spots they came up short, and a bowl in the middle for the pumpkin seeds they’re plucking out and plan on roasting. Josh gives his own pumpkin another solid once-over, caught again between the first idea he had for a carving, and the sixth one. Knowing Sam she’s likely to do something basic, add a little flair to it at the end, and he glances over to find her doodling with the tiny furrow in her brow that appears whenever she’s concentrating.

As per her request  _It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown_  is playing in the living room, because according to her it’s a classic and absolutely necessary. According to her they’re also watching  _Hocus Pocus_  later, and he agreed and said they’d have to watch  _Saw_  then, just to watch her make the face she does when she finds something particularly unappealing but doesn’t want to say so.

It’s all remarkably cheesy and kitschy and incredibly domestic. It’s part of having their names on a lease, though, a nice one-bedroom tucked away in LA, 138B that’s all theirs for the next year, and she’d beamed and kissed him right in the middle of the kitchen the day they moved in, decked out in his sweats because she had yet to unpack her clothes. Sam’d blasted Sinatra while they sorted out tupperware, told him to ring for pizza before she kissed him again and made a fort out of boxes in lieu of doing anything productive.

Josh sits back in his chairs, eyes the pumpkin, eyes her.

Of course she’d dragged him out to a farmer’s market, picked through all the produce and had him carry the pumpkins out to the car while she carried the heavy stuff like coffee. He drags his fingers through the mush again, and after a moment’s hesitation flicks some at her, and grins when it sticks to her forearm, exposed from where she rolled up her sleeves.

Sam pauses in her sketch to glance over her pumpkin at him. “Seriously?”

“You almost sound surprised,” he says, setting his knife down as she drops the Sharpie on the table and wipes her arm off. There’s a hint of a smirk she’s trying to hide, and he can see it in her eyes, so there’s no heat behind any of her supposed anger.

“Eh, it was bound to happen sooner or later,” she tells him, and he watches her pull her legs up onto her chair, resting her chin on her knees. Her eyes flit back to her pumpkin, studying it while he leans forward and stares down his own, the one he’s done little more than cut the top off of and alternate between watching her and re-reading one of the articles on the spread of paper before him.

Sam hums, listing a bit as Josh sits up and digs his hands into his pumpkin’s entrails, only grimacing at the texture and sensation, because it’s a lot colder than he thought it’d be. She doesn’t even bother to try to stifle what can only be described as a giggle, watching him pull his hand back out and let a fistful of seeds and mush plop down on the tabletop. If he’s honest, his main goal here is to acquire as many seeds as he can for roasting, hence the bowl in the middle of the table. Sam’s already cleaned out hers, diligent as she can be about the whole ordeal, as domestic and festive as it is, and Josh has spent the better part of the last forty-five minutes totally blanking on what to do for his carving. Eh, at least he got to play footsie with his girlfriend for the first five minutes, as cheesy as _that_ is. And they made hot cider, which is always a plus.

Josh goes to pull out another handful of pumpkin entrails and pauses, chancing a quick glance over to Sam, who’s already gone back to drawing on her pumpkin when the idea dawns on him. Admittedly it’s not the best one he’s ever had, but it ought to be enough for a good laugh, and there’s no real harm in it.

If anything, it’s Sam’s fault for letting her guard down, really.

He stands, under the guise of stretching his long legs out—which isn’t a totally lie, because his ass was going numb from sitting still for so long in the first place, and it’s just his luck that their table isn’t massive, so it’s not like he really has to reach to far too—

She lets out an ungodly screech when he presses his fingers against the back of her neck, against the little kitten curls that have fallen from the bun she’d tied it up in. She squirms, meaning to pull away and kneeing the table as she does.

“Cold hands, cold hands!” she yells, glowering up at him as if this is the worst thing he’s ever done, a complete betrayal against all they are.

“I had no idea,” he deadpans, and there’s orange goop still wedged under his fingernails. He waggles it at her as she stands, armed with a Sharpie and a look that could kill a lesser man—a lesser man who doesn’t realize there’s no real heat behind it. She’s probably just annoyed she didn’t think of it first, or that he beat her to it.

“Josh, what the fuck,” Sam mutters, and he steps around the chair she’s kicked out to approach her, leering and wiggling his fingers still.

“Put that on my tombstone,” he says, reaching over toward the pile of pumpkin innards she’s discarded next to the bowl of seeds. She watches him, giving him that look that says he’s dead if he so much as entertains the idea for another thirty seconds, but Joshua Washington is all about living on the edge.“What are you gonna do, Sharpie me to death?”

“Yeah,” she says, brandishing her marker like it’s really gonna stop him from sticking his cold hands up the back of her shirt. Consider it payback for pressing her cold toes against his spine at six in the morning. It’s called karma, Giddings. “Gonna  _Chalkzone_  you to death with a Sharpie.”

He pauses mid-step, because  _that’s_  a throwback, and she waves her arm like he’s afraid of getting a black line along his bicep. “Seriously? That’s what you’re gonna throw at me? Out of all the epic comebacks…”

“Josh, don’t you  _dare_ ,” Sam says as seeds hit the floor, followed by whatever entrails have come loose.

“That’s more like it.” She glares at him while he pantomimes Dr. Frankenstein’s monster, even going so far as to groan while she bats his hands away. Thing is, Sam thinks she has the upper hand, even if she  _is_  backed up against the wall. But Josh is always up for a challenge, even if that entails catching a stray elbow to the jaw as she panics (and she’ll make up for, always does, even if it’s his fault).

“Don’t you even.”

“Problem is, Sammy,” he starts, drawls and lumbers. “I triple dog dared myself. I can’t embarrass myself like that, I’d never let me live it down.”

“Josh, don’t—” she starts, gives him pause like she’s really gonna give him what for, and he has to admit he’s curious, and then she’s moving to duck under one of his outstretched arms, dropped mush squelching under her bare toes as he moves.

“Oh hell no, that’s cheating!” he shouts, making a grab for her and almost catching her arm. With all the shrieking she’s doing, he wouldn’t be surprised if the neighbors came knocking in the next ten minutes.

“You only call it that when you’re losing!” Sam shouts back from the other side of the table, fistful of innards from the pumpkin he’d left behind. He raises an eyebrow at her, meaning to goad her, and takes a step toward the table just as she takes one back.

“What are you gonna do, Sammy?”

“Come any closer and you’re gonna find out.”

“Is that a threat?”

“More like a promise.” She gets him right in the chest, and he glances down long enough to frown before staring back at her with a scoff. She’s definitely not watching  _Hocus Pocus_  now, not if Josh has anything to say about it. And the kitchen’s not that big, so it’s not like she has that many places to run and hide, despite how she keeps just barely ducking out of his grip.

Her cackling doesn’t help any, but it reaches its demise when he manages to pine her by the fridge, and chokes off into a yelp when he smooths his cold palm across her bare hip, shirt ridden up while she struggled and muttered and called him really scathing things like  _nerd_  and  _dork_. Still, retribution for sticking her cold feet against him and for the pumpkin gunk she’s currently shoving down the back of his shirt, snickering at him as she goes.

She burns the pumpkin seeds, and he’s pretty sure it’s less ‘accidental’ and more out of spite for all the ones he left in her hair.


End file.
